nny | fic - NCIS

This is a small and nonsensical present for

catwalksalone, because I owe her at least one for all the awesome McGee/DiNozzo fic she writes. :D I may crosspost to

kissmeprobie but it kinda depends how sensical I manage to be.

This is unbetad, and possibly audienced depending when

torakowalski checks her email, and typed directly in the update box. Therefore I can blame no one for my mistakes except myself, sadly.

McGee/DiNozzo, PG

Fine, except...

Anthony DiNozzo, Tim has discovered, is like a whole world of 'which would be fine, except...'. It's a clumsy way of phrasing it, and his inner artist winces every time, but there's no way he's referring to Tony as 'a whole world of 'but'', not even inside his own head. Somehow Tony would know. Anyway, what he means is simple: pretty much every good thing that can be said about him has to be qualified right after, if even the barest standards of honesty are going to be maintained. Like - like Tony was a good leader, actually. Outside of the box, off the wall, occasionally worryingly bizarre, sure, but they got results. Which would be fine, except for phrases like 'stroke my plumage, McGee', his reaction to which still occasionally keeps Tim up at night.

Like - Tony is apparently really, weirdly invested in gaining and keeping Tim's good opinion, nicknames and mocking and headslaps aside. It's like having an oversized Labrador puppy ignore everyone else in the room and come bounding over to you, stealing your food and engaging in inappropriate physical contact, and even though it's kind of uncomfortable there's also a part of you that can't help but feel flattered. Which would be fine, except that Tim has this very real concern that one day he'll come in to work to find that someone's peed around his desk.

Like the fact that, unlike Gibbs, Tony is not a Luddite. He has his moments of blinding stupidity when it comes to computers, but Tim isn't entirely beyond those himself, if he's honest. Once or twice. A decade. Tony actually seems to be attempting to learn a little more about them, in fact; little things, like actually attempting a reboot before calling Tim over to fix it, things like that. Which would be fine, except that apparently he's made the move from tape to digital in the dictaphone arena. And that would be fine, only he apparently leaves it taping all the time, just in case. Just in case what, Tim has no clue, but this is bad enough.

See, now Tony's discovered Bluetooth.

First it was "McGee!" snapped in terrifyingly familiar tones of annoyance. He nearly pulled a muscle jerking upright in his chair so often, looking around for Gibbs, for signs of team mobilization, for spilled coffee. It took until the fourth time that he worked it out, saw Tony typing quickly on his cell with both thumbs and wearing a smile that threatened laughter like dark clouds and rain. Once Gibbs got back from lunch Tony's text tone changed abruptly to a snippet of one of Ducky's interminable lectures, something soothing and English and intestine-related muttering away in the corner every five minutes until Tim was almost asleep.

When there was a "McGee!" again he snapped upright, blinked his eyes open, snapped back before he was even fully aware.

"Bite me, DiNozz - oh." He swallowed. "Hey, boss."

Gibbs gave him one of those tight little smiles that he sometimes had nightmares about, and Tim was so busy scrambling to get geared up, to be first, to be the perfect agent that was really not worth killing, honest boss, that he barely had the time to add 'Revenge' to his to-do list for the day.

Sometime during the case - although how he'd found the time Tim had no clue, since for an actual and genuine suicide (for a change) there'd been a hell of a lot of suspects - Tony had apparently mined the depths of his computer, found a soundbite from long ago and far away. Now, every few minutes, Tim was treated to the dulcet tones of Barry Smiles' (okay, he admitted it now) creepy, creepy voice.

"I love you, McGee."

"Why me?" he asked the world at large.

Ziva, apparently deciding that that world included her, shrugged. "Because you have no - what do you call them. Horse hair?"

"Tails," Abby said, from where she was industriously coloring something in behind Tony's desk.

"Right," Ziva said. "Horse tails."

Tim assumed it was one of those sayings that got lost in the translation. It was infinitely easier, that way. Tony, who was tapping out a lengthy reply with his butt parked firmly on Tim's workspace, apparently didn't think he merited a response.

"I love you, McGee."

"Does your girlfriend know about that?" Tim asked, snappier in tone than he'd entirely intended.

"Girlfriend?" Ziva asked.

"Well he's obviously texting someone," Tim answered.

"Wait," Abby said. "Tony has a girlfriend?"

Tony's shoulders hunched, and he still - weirdly, uncharacteristically - said nothing. Tim was suddenly overcome with a sneaking suspicion and he shot out a hand, years of computer games paying off in an unmatchable finger strength that enabled him to snatch the cell from Tony's hand.

"I love you, McGee," it told him creepily, and he opened the text message.

There are 26 quintillion atoms in a grain of sand, it read, so AQA estimates a beer mat contains 520 sextillion atoms – more if it's topped with spillage.

"Atoms?" he said.

"Text trivia," Tony replied, not entirely sensically.

"...why?" Tim asked, his patience stretched to breaking point.

"I love you, McGee," the cell chirped in response. And now that Tim could see Tony's face, he could also see the faintest lines of colour that washed quickly across Tony's cheekbones. Which was when it all, suddenly, world-tiltingly made sense.

Which was when Tim grabbed Tony's arm and - ignoring the barely suppressed sniggering from both Ziva and Abby - dragged him towards the men's room.

And that would have been pretty damned fine too, except for all the coffee Gibbs had apparently drunk, that day.